I’m not sure where I’m going.
I really don’t understand how I got here.
All my life seems to have been spent waiting for the next event. Tomorrow. Next year.
Never now. Never present in this moment.
Ever jumping ahead.
Memories are meant to be cherished. Not obsessed over. Memories, when indulged too deeply and too frequently, become a razorblade that severs our focus on reality.
What was, was. What is, is. That is all.
Painfully aware of my own mortality as I am, I’m having a bit of an unhinging of sorts, presently. It seems to be that there are few manners in which to spend our limited time in this dimension which will have any true impact on the realm that survives us; that which will continue regardless of our existence or lack thereof.
If time waits for no one, then what the hell are we waiting for? That doesn’t seem fair, does it?
Rather time laughs, mocking, as we spend our lives in vain, waiting.
That doesn’t make sense.
Either jumping forward and missing now, or standing still refusing to move forward; Time makes a fool of me both ways.
So what is the answer?
Awareness of This Moment.
Intentionally alive with Now.
Sounds simple, right?
What if, in truth, there is no answer?
Does it really matter what we do here if it’s going to be swept away in an instant when we fade to black?
Why do we chase the horizon when the tide will still catch us?
Is there a reason for this moment?
For any moment?
Since I’m going to die despite anything I do, does it matter what I do?
Que sera, sera.
I used to think I had some sort of talent; a reason for existing. That someday I would achieve some greatness.
I used to like to think of myself as a writer, as though I were worthy of such a calling. Truth is, I have no self- discipline, and just enough good intentions to pave my own road to Hell. I thought if I just had the time, the right music, the right space, the right software, the right moment, I could do it.
There it is. That moment I’ve been chasing again. It’s a slippery little bastard.
The reality is, I’m afraid of failing. So I make excuses. Valid ones even, living breathing excuses which are very real. However, excuses none the less.
Then there are times that I wonder if it’s even worth the excuses. Mayhaps its just not something I really want after all.
And when I seek the advice of wise counsel, I am told the best thing to do is write about it.
And I do.
And here I am.
And here you are.
And in this moment,
I am a writer.
And I am free.